


Anchors in the Darkness

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1768, 1781, Christiansted, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship, New Windsor, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: February 1781. New Windsor, New York. As ill health and stress plague the newly wedded couple, Eliza comes to learn much more about her new husband's painful past.__Based on the prompt: the anniversary of his mother's death hitting Ham harder than usual...





	Anchors in the Darkness

**Alexander—Christiansted—February 1768**

One of the barrels of salted fish had been poorly preserved. The stench grew more offensive as the barrel warmed in the bright sunshine streaming through the nearby windows. No more nauseous smell existed than that of rotting fish, Alex decided.

Wiping his sleeve over his sweaty forehead, Alex scooted to the left on the dusty wooden floor to continue his inventory on a different shelf. His lips moved silently as he counted the spools of thread arrayed for sale: seven, eight, nine…or was he on ten? He shook his head and began again. His head felt foggy.

The air shifted when a customer closed the door to the shop, and the reek of fish assaulted his nostrils once again. His belly churned queasily, his breakfast sitting heavy as a rock inside him. He wished now that he hadn’t eaten so many Johnnycakes this morning. Mama had made them especially for him, though, and they were his favorite.

She’d tickled him on the ribs to wake him. He’d curled in on himself, laughing, as she’d leaned down to kiss his temple. “I have a surprise for you, my dear little lamb.”

The Johnnycakes were a belated birthday treat, she’d explained, as he’d looked upon their rickety breakfast table with wide eyes. She’d been too ill to make him anything special on his actual birthday. But she was feeling much better now, she’d insisted (even though she still looked thin and peaky), and she hadn’t wanted to let his eleventh birthday pass with no fanfare.

“Are you daydreaming, dear heart?” Mama asked behind him. Though her voice was light and teasing, he felt a wave of shame. He’d been wool-gathering, staring blankly at the shelf, when he ought to be helping extra so that Mama could rest and recover fully.

He shifted to look behind him, and saw she was watching him from the counter with a tender smile, having just finished with the customer. She adjusted her shawl closer around her shoulders as he looked at her. Wasn’t she warm? The temperature in the room seemed to be rising by the minute.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said, wiping his sleeve over his forehead again. “It’s hard to focus when it’s so hot in here. And one of the barrels of fish smells really bad.”

Mama frowned and stepped towards the nearby barrels, lifting the top off and inhaling carefully. “I don’t smell anything bad.”

How could that be? With the top off, the rotting stench was unbearable. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying his hardest not to heave.

“Alex,” Mama gasped, dropping the barrel top and surging forward. The back of her fingers rested lightly on his forehead. “Oh, my sweet boy. You’re burning up.”

The store turned blurry and dark around the edges.

 

**Eliza—New Windsor—February 1781**

The bed rocked as Alexander sat up once again. Eliza had fallen asleep against him on the sofa earlier while he’d read through an intelligence report; when he’d shaken her awake and urged her to get some rest, she’d insisted he accompany her to bed. His mouth had tightened oddly, his gaze fixed on the gently falling snow outside their window, but he’d finally nodded. She was beginning to regret her insistence. 

She drew the blankets closer to keep away the bitter draught as he pulled aside the bed curtains. His footsteps padded along the wooden floor to the cramped water closet where they stored the chamber pot. She heard the door tap closed behind him.

He’d visited the closet three times now, she thought, concerned.

Was he ill?   

A sneeze took her by surprise, and she turned her face into her pillow with a groan. He wouldn’t be the only one under the weather, that much was certain. The miserable cold had lingered on for days, now, despite her husband’s tender ministrations. He’d taken over her care from the moment he first heard she felt poorly, rejecting Uncle John’s recommendation to let some blood and administer an emetic in favor of warm baths, hot tea, soups, and lots of rest. She rather preferred his methods, she had to admit, and they seemed to be working as well as Uncle John’s medicines ever did.

Reluctantly, she pushed herself up in bed and reached out blindly to her nightstand for a handkerchief to wipe her nose. Much as she’d hoped she was on the mend, her head still felt woolly and slow. All she wanted was to sleep, curled up beside her husband’s warm, comforting weight, but that seemed impossible with all his restless tossing and constant up and down from their bed.

His sleeplessness wasn’t a surprise, exactly, given all that was happening, though why it worse tonight wasn’t clear to her. It was two days ago now that he’d come home with the news that he’d quit his position in General Washington’s family. She’d stared at him, dumb with shock, while he’d related the tale.

“But, why?” She’d managed to ask after he first laid out the story of a discourteous encounter on the stairs. The General had certainly owed him an apology for his short temper, but that hardly seemed grounds to leave his service entirely.

“I just told you,” he’d insisted, collapsing bonelessly into the high-backed near the sofa. The table between them was littered with books, letters, a tea tray, and a mountain of soiled handkerchiefs. “I can’t take it anymore. He snaps at me over everything. Everything! We don’t have enough supplies, the men are in mutiny, everyone’s ill, and somehow it’s all my fault!”

“His nerves are as frayed as yours. Neither of you have slept properly in days, and you’re both overworked, with so much of the family away and poor Colonel Tilghman still unwell,” she’d explained in a croaky, gravelly voice. “If you get a proper night’s rest, perhaps you’ll feel differently in the morning?”

“No.” His voice was firm. “I’ll not crawl back to him to be kicked again like an unwanted dog.”

“Alexander,” she’d sighed, intent on pointing out how overly dramatic he was being. But her words were lost when a coughing fit seized her lungs and stole her breath.

Alexander was at her side in an instant, his palm soothing over her back while she gasped and wheezed into her fist. When the fit ended, he poured her a cup of tea and held it to her lips. “Slowly. There you are, my dearest angel.”

“I’m all right,” she’d promised once she’d swallowed, her breath still ragged.

“You will be,” he said certainly, his lips brushing her temple. “I’ll make sure of it.”

She’d collapsed back into his arms miserably, and had never quite gotten back to arguing against his rash actions. He’d kept going back to headquarters each morning, though. She still had hope he might reconsider.  

She heard him leave the water closet while she rubbed at her nose miserably, but instead of coming straight back to bed, he seemed to have stopped by the chest at the foot of the bed. Some items shifted, the old trunk thunked closed, and she heard him moving away again.

Where was he going?

When she pushed the bed curtains aside, she saw a faint orange glow pooling on the floor from under the door of their little bedroom. Alexander must have stoked the fire back to life in the main room. She swung her legs over the bed, slid her feet into her slippers, and levied herself from her warm cocoon of blankets, handkerchief still clutched in her hand.

She opened the bedroom door, and paused.

“Alexander?”

 

**Alexander—Christiansted—February 1768**

The room spun madly around Alex, no matter how hard he clenched his eyes shut and tried to grab on to something solid. His stomach rebelled at the sensation, and each time he was sick, he felt like another spike was being driven through his head. The sweat from his fever made him itchy, like little ants were crawling all over him. He drew in a ragged breath to try to stop himself from sobbing.

“My poor little lamb,” Mama cooed. “You’ll be all right.”

He peeled his eyes open. Mama moved towards him on unsteady legs. Her hands shook so badly that the water in the basin she carried sloshed out of the sides with each step she took. She smiled at him, and even with her trembling limbs, lank hair, and gray skin, she was beautiful.  

He wished Mrs. McDonnell hadn’t left. Their neighbor had come over to help when the fever overwhelmed Mama again, but she didn’t stay the night with them. Mama would never ask it of her; had he not been ill, too, he suspected Mama would never have asked her to come over at all.

It was his fault Mama was sick again, he knew, even though Mama tried to say otherwise. She’d been recovering, almost better, until she’d exerted herself looking after him. The lump grew at the back of his throat.

“I’m all right, Mama,” he managed to gasp. “You can lie down.”

“My sweet little angel,” she whispered, shaking her head. Arriving at the bed, she sat heavily, set the basin down on the side table, and dipped a rag in the water that remained before laying it over his sweaty forehead.

Her gentle comfort released his tight control over his emotions. A sob escaped his trembling lips. “Mama,” he cried, reaching for her like he used to when he was much smaller.

She pulled him close, letting him sit up for the first time in days so he could lay against her. Her arms wrapped tight around him. She rocked him gently and kissed the crown of his head before beginning the sweet, slow lullaby she always sang when he felt unwell.

 

**Eliza—New Windsor—February 1781**

“You should be in bed, Betsey,” Alexander said from the sofa, where he was arranging an old quilt over himself. “You need your rest. I don’t want your cold turning to something more serious.”

“You should be in bed with me,” she insisted, dabbing her nose with her handkerchief again. “What are you doing out here?”

“I can’t sleep.”

His legs were bent under the blanket, she noticed, as he was slightly too tall to fit on the sofa, and she could see his eyes were visibly bruised with exhaustion even in the dim firelight. “I don’t think you’ll fare much better out here. You’re all scrunched up.”

He hesitated for moment, then admitted, “I’m not feeling well. My stomach’s upset.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighed. Was he coming down with something, she wondered, or was the stress of the past weeks finally catching up with him? His stomach could be so sensitive. “Do you think it was something you ate?”

He shrugged.

“Did you get sick?”

“Not yet, but I feel like I will. And I don’t want to keep getting up and disturbing you.”

A fond smile tugged at her cheeks upon hearing his explanation. “You’re not disturbing me.”

His left eyebrow rose skeptically.

“All right, you are a little,” she admitted. “But I don’t mind. You’ll sleep better in our bed than squished on the sofa, especially if your belly’s upset.”

He shook his head and drew the quilt closer around himself. Good Lord, he could be stubborn. But that was fine—if he wouldn’t come back with her, she’d just have to tend to him out here.

“Do you want some tea? Some chamomile might help,” she suggested, shuffling towards the fireplace to set the kettle to boiling without waiting for him to answer. The kettle was prepared with water already, as she’d been practically living on tea for the past few days. She was sure they had chamomile around somewhere.

“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, Betsey. Go back to sleep.”

When she glanced back, he was fighting to sit up, concern plain on his face. She smiled at him. “I can make tea, sweetheart. I’m not that far gone.”

“Betsey, please.”

She frowned, confused by his obvious distress. His eyes looked glassy, she noticed, studying him more closely. She made her way to the sofa and reached out to feel his cheek. He sat up and pulled away from her.

“I want to see if you have a fever,” she insisted.

“I’m fine.”

She let her hand drop, but continued to press, “Did Tilghman have an upset stomach?” His fellow aide had been ill with a fever for weeks. Perhaps Alexander had caught something from him?

“I don’t know,” he muttered. His head fell back against the sofa. He blinked slowly, his expression slightly glazed.

A sneeze stole over her, so suddenly that she only just caught it in her handkerchief. She braced herself on the arm of the sofa, and clenched her eyes shut as her head spun. “Urg,” she growled.

He patted her hand. “I can finish the tea. Go back to bed, honey. You’re still not well.”  

“I won’t just leave you on your own when you’re feeling ill. Not when you’ve taken such good care of me.”

“I want to keep taking good care of you. That’s why I want you to go to sleep.”

Her own stubbornness reflected back at her in his eyes. They were evenly matched in selfless concern for each other, such that the conversation was destined to keep looping in the same circles. Clearly arguing with him wasn’t getting her anywhere. She opted for action: let him drag himself off the sofa to stop her, she decided.

Dropping a kiss to the top of his head, she said, “I’m going to look for the tea.”

He made a belated grab for her hand, but missed, his reflexes compromised by his illness. “Just relax,” she called back to him. “I’ll be right back.”

She moved slowly, deliberately placing each foot in front of the other as she made her way to the kitchen. If she swooned now, he’d never let her forget it. The fire had almost completely burned down, leaving the kitchen dim and horribly chilled, but she knew where the tea would be if they had any.

The high whistle of the kettle forced her to quicken her pace on the way back, tea in hand. Her husband was no longer on the sofa. Removing the kettle from the heat of the fire, she listened quietly, and heard a choked gag coming from the water closet in the next room. She winced in sympathy.

Stepping back into their bedroom, she knocked softly on the closet door.

“Don’t come in.” He sounded wretched.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

“Privacy,” he insisted. “Please. Just…go back to bed.”   

With a long sigh, she retreated back to the main room to prepare the tea while she waited for him to finish.

She waited.

And waited.

 

**Alexander—Christiansted—February 1768**

A doctor came eventually.

Mrs. McDonnell must have sent for him.

Alex had been relieved at first. Surely, a doctor would help them, he’d thought distantly, as he’d watched the man examine the contents of his black bag through the spectacles perched at the end of his long nose. The doctor would make them better. Wasn’t that what doctors did?

That seemed like a good job, a noble job, he’d considered, his mind hazy. Making people better. Maybe he’d do that, when he grew up.

If he grew up. 

Except nothing the doctor did made him feel better at all. In fact, he felt worse, much worse, nearly out of his head with the pain. All the bloodletting and purgatives made him weaker, more light headed. The room spun worse than ever, the speckled ceiling above him whirling in dizzying patterns even when he closed his eyes.

“It won’t stop,” he kept muttering. “Make it stop.”

“Hush, boy. You’ll wake your mother,” had been the doctor’s only answer.

The doctor was gone now. So was Mrs. McDonnell. He didn’t want them to come back. He just wanted Mama. Mama would make the spinning stop.

“It won’t stop,” he whined softly to himself.

“What won’t stop, dearest?” Mama muttered. He shifted his head on the pillow, hope fluttering within him to hear her voice. Mama’s eyes were still closed, but she’d turned her face towards him.

“Everything’s spinning,” he complained.   

“You need to hold on to something still,” she suggested mildly.

“Nothing’s still,” he groaned. The whole world was spinning, faster and faster, and it would never stop. Tears leaked from his eyes, hot against his cheeks.

With obvious effort, Mama adjusted to lay on her side, and she held one arm out towards him. “I’m still,” she said. “You can hold on to me.”

He inched over, his whole body trembling. Her arm closed around him, pulling him close against her. He tucked his knees up and snuggled into her embrace. She held him fast, tethered him to the earth, kept him from floating up and away, from the pain and the world.  

 

**Eliza—New Windsor—February 1781**

Eliza tapped twice on the closed door to the water closet. She’d tried to afford him the privacy he’d requested, but when he’d never reemerged, she’d gone to check on him again. He wasn’t answering her. Something was wrong.

“Alexander? I’m coming in.”

The door opened outward, the closet within far too tiny for it to close the other way. Slowly, expecting him to snap at her to go away at any moment, she pulled on the handle and peered inside. She stared for a long second, her foggy brain requiring extra time to comprehend the sight before her.

“Oh my God,” she gasped when understanding finally took hold, falling to her knees hard as she reached for him.

He was curled in a ball on his side, his cheek pressed against the wooden floorboards. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his eyes fluttered, half mast, trying to meet her gaze. His voice was barely audible, but she heard him croak out something approximating, “I’m all right.”

“You are not all right,” she argued, her voice cracking. “Here, let me help you. We need to get you off the floor.”

“Sick,” he mumbled, shying away from her. A shiver ran through him, and he curled up further on himself. She reached out tentatively to feel his forehead. His head jerked away at her first touch, but stilled when she persisted.

He was burning up.

Had this come on as suddenly as it seemed? He’d appeared to be all right before they’d gone to bed. She’d never seen someone grow so ill so quickly. Or had he simply been hiding it from her, secreting his own discomfort to protect her while she recovered? Unfortunately, the second alternative seemed the more likely.

“I know you’re sick, honey,” she said, keeping her voice low and soothing even as she wanted to shake some sense into him. “That’s all right. We’ll get you to bed. You’ll feel much better when you’re lying down properly.”

“Everything’s spinning.”

“I’m not spinning. Lean on me.” 

“No.” He recoiled from her.  

“What’s wrong?”

“You need to…you need to get better,” he insisted, pushing at her weakly, trying to send her away. “You need to.”

She batted his hand away. “I’m all right, honey. You took care of me, remember? I’m well on the mend. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“You can’t leave me.”

She sensed she was in the midst of a conversation she didn’t fully understand. Reaching out to stroke his cheek, she felt damp lines of tear tracks that went all the way to his jaw. “I’m not going to leave you, sweetheart. Never. In sickness and in health, right? We promised that to each other not two months ago.” 

“In sickness and in health,” he echoed. He was struggling towards coherence, she could see, struggling to come back to her.

“That’s right.” She leaned in close, her lips near his ear, and whispered the other promise she’d made that wonderful day, the most important one of all. “I’ll love you forever.”

Some of the glaze in his eyes seemed to fall away. He looked up at her, his gaze more lucid, and he swallowed thickly. At last, a tiny, weak smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Forever,” he echoed. “My dearest Betsey.”  

The vise of fear that had gripped her eased as she saw her husband emerging at last from the fog of fever-fed delirium.

 

**Rachel—Christiansted—February 1768**

Alex’s breath sounded labored as he laid limp in her arms. Their cramped quarters were quiet for now, the doctor gone to inflict his torturous treatments on some other unsuspecting patients. Any good will she might have felt towards the man had disappeared when she’d clawed her way towards consciousness only to hear him commenting to her insufferable neighbor, “The boy’s not long for this world. I’ll not waste any more of the purgatives on him.”

“He always had a weak constitution,” Mrs. McDonnell had agreed.

The use of the past tense had infuriated Rachel. How could they so blithely condemn her sweet, darling boy? “No,” she’d insisted, fighting to push herself up against the pillows.

“Just rest, Mrs. Levine,” Mrs. McDonnell hushed her.

Rachel gritted her teeth. How she hated that name. She’d forced her gaze to meet the doctors. “Help him. Please. You mustn’t let him die.”

“Your son is very weak, ma’am.”

“He’s not.” People had been telling her that from the moment Alex was born. The midwife had commented on his small size, and counseled her not to get too attached. But her little Alex had defied the midwife; he’d defy this doctor, as well, she had not the slightest doubt. “You must keep administering the treatments. Please."

“I was only seeking to spare your purse. If you wish me to continue—”

“I do,” she’d growled at him. Spare her purse? She’d wanted to slap him. As if there were any price she wouldn’t pay to keep her baby boy alive.

“Very well.” Despite his acquiescence, Rachel forced herself to wake each time he plied her with the bitter herbs and vile teas, to keep vigil to ensure her boy was given the medicines too. Her poor lamb cried and shook as the medicines did their work on his weakened body, but he’d held on through it all.

Alex was still holding on. His fists gripped at her nightshirt as he slumbered beside her. She pulled him closer, took comfort in the feeling of his ribs expanding beneath her arm.

“You are so loved,” she whispered into his hair. A wispy flyaway tickled her nose, the way his hair used to when he’d been a new born. Her sweet, bright, brilliant baby. “My boy. My precious angel.”

“Mama,” he muttered, not quite awake.

“I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

He whimpered against her. Even with the darkness pressing in on her vision, she could see the pain that creased his brow. Her voice was growing faint to her own ears as she tried to reassure him, “You’ll be all right. Don’t give up, my little love. Everything will be all right.”

How desperately she prayed that would be true. If only she could know that he’d live, that he’d thrive: do great deeds, and fall in love, and have a family of his own. Her eyes fell shut as her breathes grew shallow.

A confusing flash of images filled her mind, the horror of her life intermixed all the joys. And then, at the very end, a curious addition: a beautiful, black-eyed young woman handing a chubby cheeked babe to a strong, healthy man with her Alex’s striking eyes. A fancy, of course, a delusion fueled by her desperate thoughts. But there was a truth to it, a sense of certainty in her bones: her little boy would be loved, always.

Her arms loosened around him; she lovingly released her last anchor to the earth.

 

**Alexander—New Windsor—February 1781**

“Slowly,” Eliza advised as he sipped at the lukewarm chamomile tea she’d brewed for him. He swallowed and took a deep breath through his nostrils, willing the tea to calm the churning in his middle. After a long pause, when the brew appeared to have settled, he released the breathe and placed the tea on the side table.

She’d helped him back to bed, the two of them a sad sight to behold as they stumbled their way along from the closet. Once she’d settled him, she’d hurried out for some water and flannels. Almost as soon as the cool cloth had touched his head, he’d come back to himself, feeling utterly foolish and unbearably guilty at having put her to such exertions on his behalf.

“I’m sorry.”

Her head cocked to the side as she reached to take his hand. Her fingers tangled between his and squeezed. “Whatever for?”

“I didn’t mean for you to see me like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’re sick,” she said simply.

“So are you.” She rolled her eyes at him, the saucy little minx. He chuckled despite himself, but continued, insistent, “You shouldn’t be taking care of me when you’re hardly recovered yourself.” 

“It’s my job to take care of you,” she insisted. “Of course, my job would be much easier if you’d mention feeling unwell before you end up on the floor in front of the chamber pot.”

His cheeks grew hot at the reminder of his shameful display. He’d never been so out of control of himself in front of her. The stress of his leaving the General’s family and his worry for Eliza combined with whatever illness he’d managed to pick up had thrown him for a proper loop. But no, Eliza’s cold and the General and the war—none of those were the real reason.

He’d known it was coming, of course. He’d seen the date approaching on the calendar. Even if he hadn’t, he’d have known. Even if he were wandering alone in the wilderness or buried deep under the sea, he’d know, because the dreams came every year like clockwork.

The stench of rotten fish would tickle his nostrils and sweat would cover his body. And he’d hear Mama singing, her voice so soft, so soothing, but when he’d look up at her, she’d be still. So still. “Mama?” When he touched her, she was limp and cold under his fingers. Lifeless. “Get the boy,” a distant, disembodied voice would demand. “The probate officials are on their way.”

And he’d wake with a choked scream, just the way he had that terrible night. 

“Sweetheart?” Eliza’s thumb stroked the back of his hand as she leaned forward, touching her lips to his forehead. “You’re miles away. Is your fever going up again?”

He blinked, forcing himself back to the present. “No. Sorry.”

She looked like she was about to say something, but stopped with her mouth partially open, her nose scrunching up on her face. He leaned out of the line of fire just as a wet, congested sneeze exploded out of her. Her hand released his as she reached over to the side table for another handkerchief.

“This is ridiculous,” she moaned before blowing her nose.

He smiled and patted at the bed beside him. They both needed rest. “Come here. Cuddle with me.”

“I think that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight,” she teased, tossing the handkerchief aside and crawling over his lap to settle in beside him. “How’s your belly now? Still upset?”

He considered for a moment. The nausea had been coming in waves since the early afternoon, ebbing slightly only to rear up all the worse minutes later, leaving him sweaty and miserable. That’s why he’d finally moved to the sofa earlier: he couldn’t keep disturbing her every time he felt like he was about to vomit. Getting sick seemed to have helped, though, and the chamomile tea had settled the last rumblings of discomfort. “I think I’m all right for now,” he decided.

“That’s good,” she sighed, fitting herself under his arm and rubbing her hand gently over his middle.

He relaxed back into her arms.

When Mama had died, he'd come untethered, whirling through suicides, and hurricanes, and terrible, bloody battles. Not until he’d met Eliza, not until he’d held her in his arms, had his world grown still again. She deserved to know, he thought. He wanted to share every part of himself with her, even the dark, guilty parts, but he struggled with how to explain.

Just say it, he told himself. Just tell her.

“Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.”

She stilled beside him, and he heard her take an audible breath. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, his throat tight.

Her hand reached up tentatively, and she drew her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching ever so lightly against his scalp. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tears pricked at his eyes. He turned his face into her shoulder so she wouldn’t see. The words tumbled from his lips. “It was my fault.”  

“What?”

The story poured out of him, rushed and jumbled, the words stumbling into each other. He’d held it inside for so long. “She’d had a terrible fever, but it was getting better. She was getting better. But then I got sick, and she had to exert herself to take care of me. She got worse because of me. I’m the reason she died.”

“No,” Eliza cooed softly. She was still stroking his hair.

He nodded against her. “She shouldn’t have done that. She should have left me. If she’d just left me, she would have been all right.”

“No.” Her voice grew firmer, but when he peeked up at her, her expression was soft and full of compassion. “No, honey. She took care of you because she loved you.”

He swallowed against a wave of emotion evoked by the certainty in her voice.

“I know you understand that,” she continued. He shook his head. “Yes, you do. You’ve been doing the same thing for me all day: bringing me soup and tea even when you felt feverish and sick yourself. I think you’re more like her than you realize.”

A sob wrenched out of him, a long, deep sob that felt like it had been living in his chest since he was eleven. Eliza’s arms wrapped around him, tight and secure, her hands soothing down over his back while he cried. She didn’t try to quiet him, or stop him. She just held him.

She let him cry.

Only when his sobs had quieted to hiccuping breaths did she loosen her hold, her arm reaching out towards the side table. He sniffled softly and finally pulled away. “Thankfully, I have an endless supply of handkerchiefs at the moment,” she observed, handing one to him. Her expression turned thoughtful as she added, “I’m pretty sure that one’s clean.”

He chuckled wetly, dabbing at his eyes before blowing his nose. He felt like a weight had lifted off his chest by telling her about the guilt he’d carried for so many years. Or, perhaps not lifted, so much as shared. Just by listening, and holding him, she helped him to bear the weight. When he was done cleaning himself up, she tossed the handkerchief into her dirty pile and opened her arms to him again. He snuggled close to her, his head resting on her chest.

“Tell me about your mother,” she requested. His brow furrowed, and he adjusted to look up at her. “You’ve been carrying around so much pain over her death, you hardly ever talk about her. I know how important she was to you, how much you loved her, but I don’t know much about her. Tell me something.”

He smiled, a memory from those last days floating to the surface of his mind, freed at last from the dark whirlwind that usually held it under: Mama’s fingers tickling his ribs, waking him with laughter, so she could surprise him with his favorite breakfast.

“She made the best Johnnycakes.”

Eliza laughed and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over on tumblr for Ham having a hard time dealing with his mother's death, perhaps due to a fever making him more emotional than usual. 
> 
> I genuinely can't imagine the trauma Hamilton experienced having his mother die beside him of a fever with which they were both suffering. It's something I'm sure he shared with Eliza fairly early in their marriage. This particular anniversary of his mother's death was interesting, because Hamilton would have been in the midst of his decision to leave Washington's staff--he wrote to inform Philip Schuyler and James McHenry that he had quit on February 18, just one day before the anniversary of Rachel's death. The stress and difficulty of his work, combined with some ill health, seemed like the perfect recipe for a tearful confession to his new wife. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I'd very much appreciate any and all feedback! 
> 
> My blog is at aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com


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